


#36: You Don't Get to Choose Your Own Nickname

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Series: 100 Rules for Adults (That Clint Barton Never Learned) [36]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Nicknames, mention of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:03:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3216806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While stuck in bed, Clint asks Phil a question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#36: You Don't Get to Choose Your Own Nickname

“Why does Fury call you ‘Cheese’?” Clint asked, his voice slurred just a bit. 

Phil looked up from the paperwork he was completing at Clint’s bedside. His eyes were heavy, but surrounded by lines of pain. It was an hour until his next dose of pain medication was due, and Phil knew he wouldn’t ask for it sooner, both because he was an extremely stubborn bastard, and because of his family history of addiction.

Between the dislocated shoulder, the strained back, mild concussion, and cracked ribs, not mention the bruises and abrasions, Clint was looking at a decent bout of medical leave once he was released from medical. The paperwork Phil was working on included a failed equipment report for R&D on the grappling hook wire that had failed to hold Clint’s weight despite having been thoroughly tested. 

Phil set his paperwork aside and checked the ice pack against Clint’s ribs before he picked up his coffee and sat back in his seat. The ice pack was still cold, so it would be a little time before the nurse came in an exchanged it for a heat pack. “Haven’t I told you this story?” he asked, pulling off his glasses.

“Nn,” Clint muttered, his eyes closing for a long moment.

“You know that Nick recruited me right of high school, right?” Phil asked rhetorically. It was part of his “legend” around SHIELD, that he had been one of the youngest agents in the agency. Nick had been Marcus then, and Phil had been a kid who had somehow gotten himself on the radar of one of the world’s intelligence agencies before he had been old enough to vote.

“Mm.” Clint’s eyes stayed closed, but there was a tension in his features that Phil could clearly read indicating he was far from asleep.

“Nick put me through Operations training, though it wasn’t really called that, then.” Phil began. SHIELD Academy hadn’t been split into divisions in 1982. “I had planned to join the Army before college, but he convinced me that I would just end up working for him eventually anyway. I had started martial arts in junior high, so I could handle all the physical stuff.”

“Baby badass,” Clint muttered, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

“And I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a shot gun,” Phil said wryly.

“Hard to believe,” Clint murmured, his blue-grey eyes flashing open and catching Phil’s for a moment before sliding closed again.

“It’s true,” Phil said. He would never been the marksman that Clint was, but endless training and continual practice meant he could now hit what he aimed for. “Nick despaired of me ever becoming a field agent. He started calling me Cheese because that’s what my targets looked like for the first six months – swiss cheese.”

Clint coughed a laugh, which ended in a groan. “You’re lying.”

Phil chuckled. “Only exaggerating. It only took a month. Cheese also used to be slang for something out of date, and he said I was an old man out of time, even when I was eighteen,” he explained, and then sighed. He’d always been too serious, too mature, too grown up too quickly.

“Hm.” Clint made an agreeable noise. “Baby badass,” he repeated.

“Don’t you start,” Phil warned lightly. All he needed was for Clint to start spreading rumors and new nicknames around campus. 

“He can’t possibly be causing trouble in this state,” the nurse said, entering with a warming pad and tray bearing jello, broth, and juice.

“Oh, his mouth can get him in plenty of trouble,” Phil said dryly, leaning over and helping Clint raise the head of the bed enough to eat. 

“’M right here,” Clint mumbled, wincing at the change in movement, then sighing softly as the cold pack was removed and replaced with heat.

“And if you keep behaving, I’ll bring up some of the fresh berries they’re serving down in the commissary with your dinner,” the nurse said. She patted his hand. “I’ll be back with your meds in a little bit.” She made a note on his chart and left.

Clint’s eyes brightened a bit and Phil smiled softly at Clint’s grin at the mention of berries. His asset may not have liked or trusted medical all that far, but if there was a promise of fresh fruit, especially berries, pineapple, anything that was more rare or more expensive, he would try to stay on his best behavior. 

Phil’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and glanced at the message. Fury needed to see him about an upcoming op. “Fury,” he told Clint. 

“Go,” Clint said, using his good hand to bring the bowl of soup to his face. “I’m gonna pass out soon anyway.”

Phil nodded, gathering his files as he stood. “Don’t terrorize the staff,” he cautioned. 

“Sure, Cheese,” Clint retorted, a spark of humor lightening his pain-dark eyes.

Sighing, Phil looked back at Clint. Clint just smirked tiredly back.

**Author's Note:**

> Info on cheese slang came from [Cassel's Dictionary of Slang](https://books.google.com/books?id=5GpLcC4a5fAC&pg=PA268&lpg=PA268&dq=1980s+slang+cheese&source=bl&ots=2zfOT2ieua&sig=MCuCE0rGwtFkiRJMhUdA4XY5th4&hl=en&sa=X&ei=7SO8VOWLH8OhyASN_4IY&ved=0CCQQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q&f=false)


End file.
